I Know what you did
by rulesandscrictures
Summary: John has been missing since the events at the pool, and Sherlock is just coming to terms with that. However, when John is found, a whole new nightmare emerges.  scenes of torture and non-con, eek
1. Chapter 1

221b Baker Street was quiet and still in the early hours of the morning. Months ago, it was as Sherlock liked it. The quiet of the early hours gave him the time to think through his cases undisturbed, without interruption from Mrs Hudson or others. Now, however, he felt restless. It felt too quiet in the flat, and for one major reason.

John wasn't there. He hadn't been there for a month now, since the pool incident.

Sherlock had awoken in hospital, just remembering squeezing the trigger of his gun, loud noise and a pain to the back of his head. He had been knocked out by debris, as well as some cuts and bruises. One of his first questions had been whether anyone had come in with him, if John was there, but the nurse had told him simply to take it easy. This continued over the next day whilst he was kept in for monitoring.

By the time Inspector Lestrade arrived to talk to him, Sherlock was getting seriously annoyed. He sat up and told Lestrade pointblank that if he wasn't answered, he was going to go looking himself. Lestrade had been the one to tell him. There was no sign of John amid the rubble, apart from blood. There had been no-one there except Sherlock.

In Sherlock's mind, this meant that Moriarty had escaped. That possibly he had taken John with him, or else John had escaped by himself. That John would turn up at some hospital (with blood on the floor, he'd need to) or else be back at Baker Street. But he wasn't at Baker Street. The days turned to a week. Then two. No news. No word from Moriarty.

Sherlock had always dealt in cold facts, not in emotional hopes or fears. Attempting to sugar-coat the truth had always seemed pointless to him; it got in the way of moving things on. But this truth... the fact that after weeks of no news, John could be dead... was painful. A pain that surprised him with it's intensity.

Another option – and one that was perhaps more painful still – was that John was still alive. Perhaps injured, or else in Moriarty's hands. The thought of what could be happening in that context was one Sherlock tended to avoid.

He cared for John. A lot, more perhaps then he had for any other person, but he had tried to suppress such thoughts. Personal feelings, emotional attachments got in the way of the work, so he had pushed them back. The pool night, however, had opened them all up. He had been afraid for John that night, and had seen similar fears in John's eyes. He had never got a chance to explore these feelings.

He tried to bring his thoughts back to the case he was currently on. A murder/suicide, or so it had seemed at the scene. A man killing his girlfriend, jealous over an affair it was rumoured she had had, and then killing himself in a fit of remorse. Sherlock had established now that it was, in fact, the sister of the rumoured sister who had committed the crime. All he had to do now was get the proof from the sister and everything would be sorted.

Normally, the solving of a case, even if small, caused a satisfaction, but right now Sherlock felt numb. Again, troubling.

He let out a soft exhaling sigh, then closed his eyes, making a decision inside his mind. He would start again from now. He couldn't allow John's disappearance to cloud his judgement.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's plan was scuppered within a few hours. Perhaps he had drifted off to sleep, because when he next opened his eyes his phone was ringing and light was coming through the living room window. He blinked, sat up, picked up the phone.

"Yes?"

"Good morning to you too." Lestrade sounded tired, and there was... a note to his voice. Sherlock gave a little huff of impatience as he glanced at the clock.

"Is there a reason you're calling me at six in the morning, Inspector?"

"As a matter of fact, there is but... you might not like it."

Sherlock paused. He could guess what the topic of this news was.

"John."

"Yes." Lestrade didn't seem at all surprised that Sherlock knew the topic. "He's turned up but..." Lestrade hesitated.

"But what?" Sherlock sounded impatient again, but there was a feeling of fear too. What was so bad?

"I don't think we should do this over the phone. You need to see for yourself. Meet me at Queen Mary Hospital as soon as possible." And then Lestrade put the phone down.

X0X

The cab ride felt much too long, and the whole time Sherlock's mind was buzzing, and not in the usual good way.

What was he going to see at the hospital? What had Lestrade not wanted to tell him over the phone? Was John really badly injured? Sherlock couldn't logically place that. If John was that badly injured from the pool incident he would have been in hospital far before now, or dead. So the only explanation... was that the injuries, if there were any, had taken place after the pool incident. Which immediately left one thought in Sherlock's mind. [i]Moriarty[/i].

If Moriarty had done something to John... the thought made Sherlock want to go and find Moriarty and end it, right now. He wasn't used to getting this angry because of another person.

When the cab finally pulled up outside Queen Mary's, a slightly dishevelled Lestrade was waiting at the entrance way. Sherlock didn't break his stride as they entered the hospital, and Lestrade fell in alongside him, leading him upstairs.

"Tell me what's happened." There was a slight tremble to Sherlock's voice. Lestrade decided to take pity on him.

"John was admitted here two nights ago. A report on him reached headquarters and I recognized him from the picture."

"Why didn't the hospital ring Baker Street?"

"You'll see why."

"Greg, please just tell me." Sherlock knew Lestrade's first name, but had very rarely used it. That made Lestrade pause.

"Alright. It's best you know before we go into the ward anyway."

[i]Next chapter coming soon![/i]


	3. Chapter 3

"Amnesia."

Lestrade nodded.

"He has amnesia." Repeating this statement was making it more concrete in Sherlock's mind. "Partial amnesia or..."

"He has barely any memories, apparently. He doesn't remember his military service, or Afghanistan. He doesn't remember Baker Street, or you. He didn't recognise me when I spoke to him."

Sherlock was taking this all in slowly. The idea that John wouldn't recognise him at all... Lestrade spoke again.

"There is more. He has injuries. Injuries consistent over a period of time. The doctors can explain in detail but... some are consistent with torture."

Sherlock turned away at that. Again, that anger was blossoming. After a second, Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I know what you're thinking. Moriarty might well have done this, but we don't know that until-"

"Like hell we don't. Who else would do that to someone like John?" Sherlock had turned back to face him fiercely. Lestrade didn't blink.

"There's plenty of sickos in this world."

"Only one that wants to burn me and those around me. Come on, I need to see this for myself."

X0X

"Ahh, Inspector and... this is Mr Holmes, I presume?"

A smiley man came to meet the two of them as Lestrade and Sherlock entered the ward. A doctor, senior by the look of the stress lines on his face and his bearing.

"Sherlock, this is Doctor Brown, he has primary care of John at the moment."

"Thank you for coming here so fast, Mr Holmes. Given Mr Watson's condition, it's been hard to trace his next of kin. We called his sister, but there was no answer at her residence."

"What's his condition, Doctor?" That was Sherlock's primary concern at the moment. Doctor Brown gestured for them to follow him, led them down the corridor.

"Mr Watson was admitted a couple of nights ago. At that point, he was in a comatose state. He was taken into Accident and Emergency, where his injuries began to be treated, before being admitted to our intensive care unit. When he awoke in the early hours of that morning, his mental state became clear."

"Which is?"

"He has no memories from after his university years. Inspector Lestrade has informed me of his military record; he has no recollection of this. He was moved up to our specialist mental health ward and placed in a sideroom."

"What could cause that?" Sherlock was genuinely baffled. Doctor Brown paused at the door to a sideroom, seeming unsure.

"I can't be certain of that."

"But you have an idea."

Doctor Brown seemed uncomfortable. Lestrade stepped in.

"Sherlock, he can't make judgements like what without knowing the facts."

"Fine, i'll say what I think then. Inspector Lestrade told me there are marks consistent with torture on his body, and that they are consistent over a period of time. There is evidence of torture causing trauma amnesia on people. During the Holocaust for example, and during wars. Could that be what has happened."

Doctor Brown hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind.

"It could be, yes. It's not concrete, but it could be the cause."

Sherlock turned, with a grim expression, to Lestrade.

"Still think it's just some psycho, Inspector? Why would anyone else do that?"

Lestrade stayed quiet. Doctor Brown gave a low cough.

"Mr Watson is in this sideroom. You can visit him, if you wish."

An uneasy feeling settled in Sherlock's stomach. The whole way here, he had wanted so badly to see John, but now that he was here, he wasn't sure he wanted this.

"He won't recognise me..."

"Inspector Lestrade said you are his flat mate, correct? Perhaps seeing someone so familiar will stir something. I would suggest being cautious though. If our theory is correct, not only has he been subjected to a traumatic event but he also has forgotten multiple traumatic events. We must proceed cautiously."

Sherlock nodded. The last thing he wanted to do was cause John more pain. He took a breath... then turned the handle of the door and stepped inside.

_Sorry, I know i'm leaving this at a crucial point, but sometimes that's the best thing about a story! Please let me know if you're enjoying this and want more._


	4. Chapter 4

_First off, thank you to everyone who's added my story (or me) to their alerts, and for the reviews. It's good to know people want to see more. I know i'm being mean to John – not something taken lightly, I love John and indeed Martin Freeman – but things will improve. Ahem, eventually._

_I aim to please, so please let me know if you like what i'm doing, or indeed if you don't. I'm aiming to make my posts more detailed, so posting might take longer then my past three posts._

_But now, on with the story! Enjoy._

It was a small room. There was one window with the blinds half-drawn, meaning that the room was somewhat dimly lit. There was a bed, two chairs and a small table, on which vase and a jug of water.

John was sat in the chair nearest the window, wearing what looked like a hospital gown and a borrowed dressing gown. Sherlock immediately made a mental note to bring some of John's things in for him. He was reading a book, but looked up at the sound of the door.

Sherlock moved into the room, and heard Doctor Brown come in behind him. Perhaps seeing the fact that Sherlock had no idea what to say or do, the doctor took the lead.

"Good morning, John." He said, moving forwards and shaking his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright. Better then yesterday." John's voice was hoarse. His eyes moved past the doctor, and focused on Sherlock, who had stepped further into the room. Doctor Brown, noticing, glanced round.

"Ahh, yes. John, i've brought someone to see you today. I told you I couldn't get in contact with your family, I know, but this gentleman is the next best thing."

Sherlock stepped closer, so that he was standing behind the free chair. John looked awful. There were bruises and cuts over his hands, face and neck, and he looked thinner, tired. It was clear he needed rest and recovery time, whatever had happened. An IV drip was connected into his arm.

"Hello John." He said softly.

John looked up, met Sherlock's eyes. There was a moment's silence.

"I'll leave the two of you alone." The doctor said, turning to Sherlock. "I'm afraid you only have fifteen minutes today."

"That's alright." As the doctor left, Sherlock nodded to the free chair. "May I?"

John nodded, and Sherlock took a seat.

"I know you, don't I?" John sounded curious, a little puzzled. "I must do, otherwise the doctors wouldn't have invited you here."

The fact that John seemed to not remember him at all was a painful one, but Sherlock didn't react. Hopefully it would change in time.

"Yes, we know each other. My name is Sherlock Holmes. We're flat mates, we have been for a few months."

"Oh." John paused, and a frustrated expression showed on his face. "I'm sorry, I can't remember..."

"It's OK, the doctor gave me a brief explanation. There's no need to apologize."

John looked pained. "I can't remember. Just... flashes. The last concrete thing I remember is from my university days."

"It will come back. Yes, it will." Sherlock confirmed, as John was shaking his head.

"I almost don't want it to. I have injuries that I don't remember getting, and i'm not sure I want to know how they got there."

Sherlock hesitated. Then his hand found John's arm, squeezed it.

"I don't know how you got them. None of us do yet. But we'll find out, that I promise you."

John gave a faint chuckle.

"You sound so sure. I think I believe you."

X0X

"The clinical term is repressed psychogenic amnesia. It is when a person experiences memory loss due to extreme psychological trauma or stress."

"I've heard of that before. But John's forgotten so much..."

"If the level of trauma suffered is strong enough, this can happen. It's a form of self preservation. The brain closes off the traumatic memory or memories. They can be accessed again, and they can come back."

Sherlock considered that. He was sat in Doctor Brown's office, listening to the Doctor's explanation of John's condition. He had left when his fifteen minutes were up, though he had assured John he would come back tomorrow. Lestrade was next to him, and was the one who spoke next.

"You're sure this is it?"

"It's hard to be certain in this branch of medicine, but it is the most logical explanation."

"He already suffered PTSD from Afghanistan, and had a psychosomatic limp when we first met." Sherlock said.

"Then perhaps this is the only way he mind could satisfactorily cope." Brown said.

"What can be done?"

"The memories could come back by themselves. Sometimes they come back gradually over the subsequent weeks. Other times, a certain smell or other 'trigger' will cause the memories to come back. It's all up to John now."

"Well, I know one thing." Sherlock said grimly. "I want answers about what happened to him. And I know just where to start."


	5. Chapter 5

_I'm sorry for how long I wasn't around, folks. I'm in my final year at university, and for a while I was doing my dissertation and preparing for exams and stuff. Once i'm in that zone of thought, little else gets in. I'm back now, with an extra long, band new chapter, which I hope you enjoy. Please please please let me know if you enjoyed it. The next should be up Sunday evening or Monday._

_I also have an idea for a new story, post-Reichenbach, but for now, this is my 'baby'. Considering the events of Reichenbach Fall, I think my story's ending will be somewhat ironic._

Sherlock didn't even need to leave the hospital grounds to find what - or rather, who - he was looking for. He had just moved outside the hospital when his brother's voice made him stop.

"You do enjoy turning up where you aren't supposed to be, don't you brother?"

Sherlock turned to see Mycroft stood close to the double doors that led into the hospital. His briefcase was under his arm, and he looked as though he throughly wished to be back inside.

"About as much as you enjoy keeping secrets, it seems." Sherlock answered. He wasn't particularly in the mood to play games. "You knew John was alive."

Mycroft eyed him over for a second, then gestured for Sherlock to accompany him. After a hesitation, Sherlock fell into step beside him, and the two of them moved away from the main doors and towards the grounds of the hospital. Finally, Mycroft gave a low sigh.

"Yes, I knew." He confirmed. "I wished to tell you when the time was right."

"When the time was... what do you mean, when the time was right? What, did you want to catch me at the right moment to tell me John is in this state? Perhaps tell me when i'm in a happy and calm state?" Sherlock's tone was sarcastic. Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"This is a sensitive situation Sherlock, we needed to test what is actually occurring before I could tell you. I didn't think about your Inspector friend telling you before I could."

Sherlock could see the logic behind that, even if he disliked it.

"How long have you known? And what is so sensitive?"

Mycroft hesitated.

"I knew a few days after what had happened. I received intelligence that John was alive, and this was confirmed to me the next day. I was then told that he was... being held by Moriarty."

"I _knew_ it." Sherlock murmured. They had stopped now, far enough away from patients and visitors that they could not be overheard. He turned to Mycroft. "What happened to John? What has made this... happen?"

"I'm afraid there is no concrete answer. Moriarty knew we would come looking, that much is clear, and planned for it. There were multiple locations he could have taken John to, and each of these was well-hidden. However, judging by John's state of health both physically and mentally, theories can be made."

"_And?_"

"There are two possible reasons why Moriarty has done this. The first is that he merely wished to hurt John, and did so until the point that John's mind... shut down. Merely for his own sport and as a blow to you. A chilling thought."

"Moriarty was prepared to strap an elderly, disabled woman and a child to explosives merely for his game, he doesn't seem to have many qualms." Sherlock said quietly.

"True..." Mycroft seemed troubled.

"You said there were two theories?" Sherlock prompted.

"The second theory is that it was not just... for a game. That instead of Moriarty simply breaking John, he did it for a reason."

"Of course he did it for a reason, he did it to hide what he has done!" Sherlock was getting frustrated by now. This was nothing new!

"_Listen_ to me for once, Sherlock. What I mean is, that John may have information now that Moriarty doesn't wish anyone to know. Or a location. Or-"

"Or this is all still part of his game, his coup." Sherlock interrupted.

"What?" Mycroft looked confused, but Sherlock's mind had reawoken. Since finding out about John, he had felt unsure, his ability to think clearly somewhat muffled by what was happening. Now, as he understood, his brain was going a mile a minute.

"Moriarty isn't just points scoring. He intentionally broke John's memory. Why do that? He loves people to know just what he's done, he revels in knowing what he's done. This was done for a specific reason. I think whatever happened over the past few weeks, there are things John saw and remembered Moriarty didn't want us to know, and repressing John's memories was his way to keep us out. The key is in John's memory."

Mycroft seemed at a loss for words for a second.

"Then what do you propose we do? Just crack open his memory? It isn't that easy, Sherlock."

"I know, I... I know that. The doctor told me all about how this will take time, how it's John's own choice, it's his mind to unlock. I think that was Moriarty's whole intent. All I know is... I will do my best to help him. It... I owe him that." _It was my fault he was at the pool..._ He hadn't conciously thought about this before.

Mycroft gave a sigh. His breath blew up in a little cloud of steam in the cold air.

"Well, give him my regards. I must return to work."

"He doesn't remember you yet, Mycroft." Sherlock called after him. He rather thought Mycroft's body tautened at the knowledge he wasn't as memorable as he had hoped.

When he was back in Baker Street that night, he pulled out his laptop, and went onto the response pages of his website. There were the messages he had left Moriarty before. He typed a new one.

_I know what you did. I will beat this new game. He's stronger then you think._

Barely ten seconds after he had pressed send, his phone beeped with a new message.

_We'll soon see about that. Have fun my dear. JM._

His grip on the phone tightened for a second, before he put it back into his pocket. In the back of his mind, he could almost see Moriarty loving this. He turned towards the exit of the hospital, planning to go back to Baker Street and think, formulate a plan. As he got to the gates however, his phone beeped again.

_No no no, don't leave yet. Look behind you. Second floor. JM._

For a second, Sherlock had no idea what that meant. Then, as it clicked, he turned quickly to look back up at the hospital. His eyes moved to the windows of the second floor. The floor John's ward was on.

There, looking through one of the bay windows, was Moriarty, wearing a white doctor's coat and smiling broadly. He gave an ironic wave, and then turned and began walking away down a corridor.

... in the direction of John's ward.

XOX

John felt restless. Since Sherlock had left, he hadn't been able to settle to anything. He'd tried reading, watching TV on the strange screen they had for patients to use... he couldn't focus.

Since waking in the hospital, he had felt... empty, frightened and confused. He must be in his late thirties, and yet he could remember nothing beyond his early twenties. That was... fifteen, nearly twenty years, just vanished. And then there were the injuries... They caused most of the fear.

_What _had happened? And why the hell couldn't he remember? The doctors and nurses hadn't told him anything but, somehow, he knew they were almost as clueless as himself. Sherlock, though... that was different. He had seemed to know a little more, how John didn't know, but there'd be something different in his eyes. And there had been that feeling. John... trusted him.

He gave a slight sigh. There was no use milling all of this around in his head. All that would do was frustrate him. He sat up with a little difficulty, and swung his legs out of the bed one by one. As he did so, however, the door opened. One of the nurses he'd seen most often, a petite woman with dark blonde hair, stepped inside.

"Hello again John. Another doctor is here to see you."

The doctor stepped in behind her. He was quite slight in build, looked young for a doctor, and had dark hair. There was something... maybe nervousness in his eyes?

"Thank you, nurse, I won't be long in here." He had the smallest smirk on his face as the nurse left the room and closed the door behind him. He came closer to the bed, and seemed to be... considering John. John cleared his throat.

"Are you here for any particular reason, doctor? I think i've been seen by virtually every type f doctor here."

"Oh, no. I'm a... well, a specialist in this field." Again, there was that slight smirk. The man came closer again. "Do you remember nothing, John? Absolutely nothing?"

John hesitated before speaking. He didn't know why, but this all felt... strange. This was a doctor though, a professional.

"As i've explained to the other doctor's, I remember nothing beyond my early twenties right now."

The doctor gave a smile, a nod, as if this was what he _wanted_ to hear.

"If you're a specialist, can you tell me what's going on?" The building frustration and confusion at not remembering made John ask this.

"Oh, I can... but I need to ask one more thing first. Sherlock Holmes has been to visit you, hasn't he?"

"... how do you know that?" John asked quietly. When there was no answer, he asked, more urgently "Do you know him?"

"I knew that he wouldn't be able to resist coming to see you once he knew where you were. Of all the people he chooses to build an attachment to, he chooses someone so... so _ordinary."_

"What do you mean? Who _are_ you?"

"And then such _weakness_, the moment his little friend is threatened, giving in to the game. Unimaginable."

The sense of unease was building quickly in John. This man was not a doctor, he could tell that.

"I think you should leave." He moved to press the button to call the nurse back to the room. Suddenly, quick as a snake striking, the man had hold of his arm in a tight grip, preventing him from touching the button. He was gripping precisely in a very sore point, and seemed to know it. The look on his face was suddenly wild, feral as he hissed.

"Don't. You. _Dare._ This is all your own fault, you know. My plan was just to keep you away from him for a few weeks, but you had to see too much, not keep your mouth shut. You brought this on yourself." He almost threw John's arm away from him, causing John to end up back on his back on the bed. The man straightened up, breathing quickly, looking slightly calmer now.

"I'll tell you something though, _Doctor_ Watson. Keep away from Sherlock Holmes, or you will bitterly regret it. Every memory you gain back will be doubly painful with him in your life."

For a second, there was silence. Then John, panting slightly from the pain in his arm, sat up again.

"Forgive me if I don't take the words of a madman as canon. I remember you, Moriarty, and i'm not going anywhere."

A look of shock and deep anger came over Moriarty's face, but before he could answer, the door to the room banged open. Sherlock came in, with the blonde nurse right behind him.

"I'm sorry doctor, I tried to stop him but he ran right past me." The nurse cried.

"Do you people not even check identification? This man is no doctor." Sherlock said quietly.

"Never mind. I said all that needed to be said." Moriarty checked his watch. "Slow, Sherlock, I was expecting you thirty seconds ago."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John for the space of a second. His hand was now at his arm, which was still painful.

"What needed to be said?" He asked.

"Just pressing a matter home. Nothing you need worry about." Moriarty said brightly. He walked to the door, past the dazed looking nurse, who seemed to have no idea what was going on. "I best be off. Goodbye Sherlock."

And with that, he strode off down the corridor.


	6. Chapter 6

_Authors Note: First off... thank you so much to all the people who have subscribed, favourited and reviewed on 'I know what you did'. It means so much to me, genuinely. I left a mistake in the last chapter, which someone called me up on via PM. I intend to correct that. It was a silly mistake, due to last minute changes and lack of proof-reading (sigh). Anyway, on with the next chapter! Hope you enjoy, and as always, review, subscribe or favourite._

Over the next week, John's health gradually improved. He lost the drawn look he had been showing, and the bruises and injuries that had been so evident began to fade. He became tired less easily, and was able go for short walks with Sherlock in the grounds of the hospital on the days he came to visit.

His memory was also beginning to come back, albeit in bits and pieces. To Sherlock's mingled annoyance and amusement, he burst out with "You don't know that the earth goes around the sun?" upon Sherlock's arrival on the ward on day three. He also seemed to remember some of the work they had done and the cases they had solved. He remembered Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson, and some of the little details.

But that was the problem; he only remembered _some_ of them. Key events in cases were missing, and no matter how much John tried they wouldn't come. He was becoming more frustrated in this, and with being cooped up inside the hospital as he became more well. There was also the fact that they were never alone. There would always be a nurse just outside the door, or a hospital orderly walking discreetly a few feet behind them. Sherlock had a notion that this was either Doctor Brown's or his brother's work. They were ensuring he wouldn't pressure John too much about remembering what Moriarty had made him forget. This was another source of annoyance; what did they think he would do, tie him down and interrogate him? Despite what others seemed to believe, he did have some tact.

And then... there was the quietness that sometimes passed, the look on John's face when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. John seemed nervous, even fearful, and would probably attempt to divert the topic if Sherlock brought up his memories. He was sure something that Moriarty had said had triggered this. John was afraid of what he would remember. Sherlock hadn't arrived in time to hear anything beyond John's retort, and hadn't yet asked what had occurred.

Beyond these concerns, however, things felt like they were returning to normality. John's personality, his sense of humour and general... goodness were still there, and Sherlock found himself acting completely normally, despite it all. They laughed, bantered and quipped.

Finally, after ten days, John got the news he had been waiting for. When Sherlock turned up in the early evening, he had a grin on his face. Not quite the grin from before, but almost. He was also wearing one of his jumpers and jeans combos, and seemed to have been waiting for Sherlock to arrive.

"They're letting me out, tonight." He said.

"And there was me thinking I would have to help Mrs Hudson drag your belongings out onto the pavement if you took too long." Sherlock said blandly. John rolled his eyes as he got to his feet with a little difficulty. He was still slower in moving then before.

"Back to Baker Street then. To 'normality'."

"Life on Baker Street is hardly normality, John."

John gave a slight laugh.

"I'm about to find out just how abnormal it is, all over again."

"Hm, welcome back to life behind the looking glass." Sherlock hesitated, and his voice took on a more serious note. "John, if you'd rather wait until this has passed..."

"No. I want to go back. I need to. Being in here is like being on bloody display, the doctors all coming to examine and question you."

"I dare say." Sherlock chuckled. John's eyes met his.

"You have questions as well. I know you do. I wish I had answers."

Sherlock gave a brief nod.

"We'll discuss this later. For now, onward and upward."

XOX

Arriving back on Baker Street felt strange to John. Like he was arriving at a place he had visited as a child and could barely remember. As the taxi pulled up outside Number 221, he looked up at it, uncertain. He recognised it, but... dimly. Again, that sense of frustration built inside him. This truly was ridiculous, _why_ was this happening?

Sherlock got out of the taxi, and John followed a beat later. As he got his bag out of the back of the vehicle, the door to Number 221 flew open, and an elderly woman appeared, slightly breathless, in the door. Up until a couple of days ago, John wouldn't have recognised her, but now he did, if dimly.

"Mrs Hudson." He said with a smile.

"Oh, _John_." Mrs Hudson hurried forward and gave him a tight hug. Despite himself, John winced as pain went through his shoulder and Mrs Hudson moved back. "Oh, i'm sorry."

"No no, it's fine, just... i'm still tender in places." There was a note of apology in John's voice. Unspoken was the fact that whilst he knew her face and name, he couldn't remember her properly. He had a feeling that Sherlock had already briefed Mrs Hudson on how things were, as she didn't question or flap. Instead, with a smile, she said.

"Well, get inside, won't you? After all that time in hospital, you'll get a chill out in the cold. And that hospital food..." They both could hear her continuing to talk as she moved inside and started up the stairs.

"I do believe she missed you." Sherlock said with a brief smile. "Careful, she'll use this as an excuse to fuss over you at every opportunity, you'll be overwhelmed."

"Death by fussing... wouldn't that be something?"

XOX

_A steel window... the morning chorus of birds... classical music, a piano piece... a face, the same face over and over, an overwhelming sense of panic..._

John woke with a start and a cry of alarm. It took a second for him to become aware of his surroundings; then he gave a groan, put a hand over his eyes.

In the hospital, he had been waking just like this. Startled in the middle of the night, with an overwhelming sense of fear or panic. Once, horribly, he had felt as though he was being choked. Each time, it had taken him a moment to become aware, and each time, he hadn't been able to remember a thing from the dream. This time, a few vague memories were lingering... but it was fading.

He felt unsteady, and realised he felt thirsty. He got out of bed, and went into the kitchen, needing to keep a hand out in the dim light. He poured a glass of water, and took a sip, realising as he did so that his hand was trembling. Christ, he was a mess. The sooner this all got sorted, the better. He started back towards his room.

"You're still having nightmares."

John nearly jumped out of his skin. He fumbled for the lightswitch and turned it on to see Sherlock laid on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

"Jesus, I nearly had a heart attack." John gasped. Then he registered what Sherlock had said. "How do you know i've..."

"The good doctor was kept informed of your nightmares by the nurses who heard you at night, and I was able to get a look at his notes on you on one of my visits."

"How did you..? Never mind, it doesn't matter." John muttered. He moved to a chair and sat down, rubbing his eyes.

"What was the nightmare about?"

"Hm? Oh, I... can't remember. I just wake up with a start and it drains away. All I remember from this is... music and a face."

Sherlock turned his head at that.

"A face? Whose?"

"That's the problem, I don't remember." The frustration in John's voice was clear. After a second, Sherlock broke the silence.

"You remembered Moriarty."

"What?"

"You said you remembered him, in the hospital. How?"

"He grabbed my arm, caused pain." John lifted his right arm and indicated his forearm, which still had a bandage around it. "And when he did, I remembered... I don't know what I remembered..."

Sherlock had sat up now, and was watching John intently.

"Think about it John, really think. Try to remember."

John closed his eyes. After a second, he spoke.

"I remember... him grabbing my arm like that before. In a pool, a swimming pool..." _The baths..._ Sherlock thought. "Pulling me out of the water. It's... ruined, why is it ruined?" He raised his head, met Sherlock's eyes.

"The last time I saw Moriarty and you... was in that pool. Before it blew up."

"Blew...?" John's eyes suddenly widened. "There was a bomb... he'd strapped a bomb... Oh Jesus." He got to his feet. "What the _hell_ were we involved in?"

"That doesn't matter now, don't you see?" Sherlock got up too. "What he did triggered a memory, and he didn't intend that to happen, did he?"

"I... doubt it. I made him angry, and he reacted without thinking." John hesitated. "These memories aren't going to be good ones, are they? They're going to be difficult." Sherlock didn't answer, but John didn't really need him to. "But I need to remember them. I will."


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's note: Gosh, i'm so chuffed that people are enjoying this. Thank you guys, you put the biggest smile on my face and make me want to write all the more! I'm a bit nervous about this chapter it's... been difficult to decide upon. I do hope you enjoy, and as always, review, alert and favourite!_

"What was the music you heard?"

"I don't know, I recognised it sort of but didn't know the name. It was on the piano."

"Have I played it in the flat?"

"Maybe... i'm not exactly the 'listen-to-classical-music-constantly type, unlike you."

From the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock smirk slightly as he paced back and forth, clearly thinking. There was about thirty seconds of silence, during which John twitched nervously, then.

"You said about birds..."

"Yeah, um... birds chirping, like the morning chorus."

"How many?"

"How the bloody hell would I know that? Sherlock, seriously, I know you mean well but..."

"Be quiet, i'm thinking."

Another period of silence. John sighed, put his face in his hands for a moment. He was tired. After the nightmare, he had been incapable of sleeping, all the questions Sherlock was now asking going around his head. It had been the same for the past week, and the limited amount of sleep was telling on him.

"A steel window and a face..." Sherlock seemed to be speaking to himself this time.

"The same face. Just... looming out of the darkness again and again. A man's face."

A frown showed on Sherlock's face. John sighed, got to his feet.

"There's no point to this Sherlock..."

"Yes there is, we can use this information."

"_What_ information? You've asked me these questions repeatedly, and i've told you the same thing. There's nothing there that's concrete, for all we know this is just stuff from before we met or..."

"There _has_ to be a link here!" Sherlock's voice was raised in frustration.

"The truth here is that you want there to be a link so that you can solve this. Sorry to be a disappointment, but I can't just switch the memories back on, and trying to push me into remembering isn't going to help that!"

There was a pause. John turned away from him. Sherlock realised that he had been doing what he'd been attempting to avoid, pushing him.

"... i'm sorry. I know that this is frustrating but... it is for me too. I don't like seeing you this way."

John gave a faint laugh.

"I don't like being this way." He glanced round. "What are we going to do?"

"That is a very good question." Sherlock sighed.

XOX

Just what _were _they going to do? Sherlock pondered that over the next few days. The problem was that whether he liked it or not, John was right. Pushing in an attempt to get the memories to come would do nothing; they would come in time. This was incredibly frustrating.

He started taking on small cases again, mainly to ease this sense of frustration and boredom that was starting to dawn. If he stayed around the flat for too long, he took it out on John, or the other way around, and this was not healthy.

John, meanwhile, focused on getting better and getting used to his surroundings again. There were so many things he didn't remember, people whom he had to get to know again. Lestrade came round the day after John had come home. If it hadn't been for the man coming and talking to him in the hospital, John wouldn't have recognised him. Sherlock's description of their dealings with the Inspector sounded like... fantasy, yet John could tell it was true.

Five days after John had left hospital, he left the flat. Partly because he hated just being inside the flat all the time, and partly because Sherlock hadn't thought of restocking the shelves. They were actually running out of beans.

It was in the middle of the supermarket that he spotted him. Only in profile, and for a split second before he disappeared down a neighbouring aisle, but it was enough to make his heart skip a beat.

_No... it couldn't be..._

He was imagining things, still highly strung with the lack of sleep and everything. Yes, that was it.

He paid for the items and left the store. Now he just wanted to get back to Baker Street.

Out on the high street, he didn't slow his pace. The street was full of people, but he still felt vulnerable out there. He chanced half a glance over his shoulder.

_Shit..._ The man he'd seen inside had just left the store too, and was headed the same way. He was certain it was the same man, he was wearing the same jacket, had the same dark blonde hair, the pale skin...

_It's the man from my nightmare... from my memories..._

John tried to think rationally, but panic was choking him. He kept walking. It was five minutes walk back to the flat, once there he could take a moment, work out what was going on.

He turned onto the next street, chanced another glance over his shoulder when he was around fifty metres along the street. The man was _still _behind him, and John's panic was starting to be replaced by anger, and along with it, confusion. In the back of his mind, memories were starting to shift, to come back. He could hear... gunfire? Yes, gunfire, faintly.

Part of him wanted to break into a run, to get back to the flat as quickly as possible, but a voice in the back of his mind was telling him not to run. He didn't break his pace, didn't slow down or speed up. There was one more street before Baker Street, just one more.

He turned the corner, and stopped. Two men were waiting around the corner, leaning against the wall. Upon spotting John, the taller of the two nudged his companion, and both of them straightened up, just as the blonde man turned the corner. The sidestreet they were on was deserted, apart from the four of them.

"It's OK John, don't try to run." The man behind him was the one who had spoken. John had indeed at that moment been considering making a run for it. He glanced back.

"Who are you? What is this?" John's voice was trembling. In the back of his mind, again, came the sound of gunfire and... shouting, in some strange language. He felt the blonde man's hand on his shoulder, and instantly shrugged away, moved so that he had all three of them in his sight.

"Easy, easy." The blonde man spoke in a similar manner to the way a horse trainer would do to coax a nervous horse. "There's no need for any unpleasantness."

"I remember you..." John's voice was faint. "I know i've seen you before."

For a moment, the blonde guy seemed a little surprised. Then he gave a faint smile.

"I should have known Jim wouldn't want to wait to get things started." He gave a sigh. "How much do you remember?"

"What the hell does that-"

"Just answer the question, John."

John hesitated. The men on either side of the blonde guy moved closer. _No need for unpleasantness my ass..._

"Just you." He lied. Something was telling him not to tell the entire truth. The man's expression seemed to relax, he gave a nod.

"I'm afraid that won't last long." He said softly. He raised a hand and the two men either side of him moved forward towards John. John didn't have time to react before they got hold of him.

XOX

Sherlock was sat in Molly's lab. His laptop was on the table in front of him, and his eyes focused on the screen. Molly came over to him, giving him a slightly puzzled look.

"Do you need help with anything?" She asked tentatively.

"I'm fine."

"OK." After a second. "How's um..."

"John." Sherlock supplied the name in a dull tone of voice. "He's fine."

"Oh... it's just, Greg told me a little about..."

Sherlock looked up at that, and Molly blushed.

"What did he say?"

"Just that... he was concerned. That John looked badly beaten up, and can't... remember things. We're his friends too Sherlock, we want him to be alright."

"Yes, you're so much of a friend that you don't remember his name." Sherlock answered curtly. There was a brief silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Molly look away, a hurt expression on her face. He could hear, in the back of his mind, John reprimanding him with a '_Not good, Sherlock_'.

"I didn't mean that." He murmured. "I know that you're concerned."

"Is what you're doing to do with him?"

"Yes." Sherlock leant back in his chair. "He is starting to remember bits and pieces. He mentioned music and the sound of birds. I've been attempting to piece it together but..." He tailed off. He hated to admit it, but he was at a loss. After a moment, Molly sat down beside him.

"Did he... say what music it was?"

"A piano piece, a familiar one. He didn't remember the name."

"I wish I should help. Really I do." Molly said softly. Sherlock glanced toward her, and could tell she was being completely sincere. He gave a nod of thanks.

"I'm going to go and get a cup of coffee, shall I get you something?"

"No, I... i'll probably head home shortly."

"Alright." Molly got to her feet and walked to the door, closing it behind her. Sherlock glanced at his computer screen for a moment, then turned away from it, took his phone out of his shirt pocket, about to ring Baker Street. He'd been gone longer then he had intended...

A beep from his laptop made him pause. It was the sound it made when he had email. He cast a glance at the screen again, thinking it would just be Lestrade asking what was going on, or some prospective client.

Sherlock paused. JM. _Jim Moriarty..._ Of course, it would be sent from one of those websites where fake email addresses could be written in. The subject heading read _Re: Your little friend_. Sherlock clicked it.

A link to a video on Youtube was there, along with two sentences of writing.

_Show this to the good Doctor, to see his reaction._

_You might want to check on him, by the way. JM._

Sherlock clicked the link, and the sound of piano music filled the room. He glanced at the name of the song, and despite himself, half-smiled. _Normand Corbeil - Painful Memories (Heavy Rain OST_). How ironic.

His smile faded as his eyes raked the second sentence again. _You might want to check on him, by the way._ Sherlock picked up his phone, and dialled John's number quickly.

It rang three times before it was picked up.

"Hello?" Mrs Hudson's voice. Sherlock relaxed a little; he was at home then.

"Mrs Hudson, could I speak to John?"

"Oh, Sherlock. Well, I would say yes, but John's in the bathroom. He doesn't sound very well, poor thing."

"He's ill?"

"Yes, I don't know... Oh John, are you alright? It's Sherlock on the phone, he wants to talk to you."

There was a pause, presumably while John took the phone. Then...

"Sherlock." John's voice was a gasp. Sherlock could almost see him, grey-faced and sweaty.

"John, what's going on?"

"You're going to want to come back here." John mumbled. "I've got a hell of a story for you. I know what happened while I was away."

"What do you mean? John, why..."

"I was tortured. Sherlock, I was tortured and r...raped. Know how I know that? Because the bastard involved with it just paid me a fucking visit."

_Author's Note: … God, I feel mean. Next one's going to be graphic, i'm afraid._

_Also, the piece of piano music: .com/watch?v=za5hzta5VpM_


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: This took me a lot longer then normal. Partially because I really wanted to do this well, and partly because it's quite emotionally draining to write this sort of thing. Warning: This has descriptions of graphic violence and sexual violence. I've pushed the story rating up to Adult as a precaution. I'll admit to being nervous about the reception of this one. As always, review review review! _

Sherlock was back at the flat within half an hour. When he arrived, he found Mrs Hudson sat with John in their flat at the kitchen table. John had a cup of tea in his hands and Sherlock, glancing at them, saw that his hands were shaking minutely. His skin was clammy, and Sherlock was willing to bet that his pulse would be shallow and quick. _A man in shock... _Both of them looked up as he came in, before Mrs Hudson got up.

"I'll leave you to it. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson said as she moved past him.

"Sense?" Sherlock questioned as he removed his coat. John didn't respond, but after a moment it clicked in Sherlock's mind. "You're thinking this is your fault." It wasn't a question. He knew it.

"Who else could be at fault here?" John questioned. His voice was quiet, monotone.

"How about the people that did this? How about Moriarty and his obedient servants? Oh, but no, like every person who is the victim of such crimes, you've decided it was _your _fault. 'If I had just done this or that differently, it wouldn't have happened.'"

"It _is_..." John started, but Sherlock wasn't up for hearing the rest of that sentence.

"If you are going to sit there and punish yourself for something you couldn't have prevented, then that's your prerogative. But you are a fool to do so."

"Don't you start judging me, Sherlock, don't you dare."

"The John I know is stronger then this."

"The John you know _doesn't remember anymore_!" John got to his feet jerkily. "I know you feel you have a right to judge all the... the lesser beings in your life, but you have _no_ idea how this feels. And all the analysing in the world won't give you a sense of it, so don't you _dare_ judge how i'm feeling right now."

They stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock hadn't expected that outburst, but realised John was right. He didn't know.

"So tell me." He murmured. "If I don't know how it feels, tell me."

John shook his head, turning away.

"It's not that simple. I still don't remember it all, or remember it clearly. Just... enough to know what was done."

"John... please. I want to know."

John tilted his head back. "Why?"

"Because you're my friend and I want to know what went on, because I don't think keeping memories such as this within is at all healthy, and because I want to know just how many cretins need to be sorted out." Sherlock's tone of voice was deadly serious. He meant every word.

After a few moment's, John looked round and nodded. He moved into the living room and sank down onto the couch. Sherlock sat down opposite and steepled his fingers together, waiting.

"The first thing I remember is... being in the water, in the pool. We'd both been knocked back by the bomb and... I remember thinking that either way, this was it. I must have lost consciousness temporarily, because next thing was... being dragged out of the water and carried out of there. I was in pain and... I remember seeing you." He glanced at Sherlock. "You were at the edge of the pool, unconscious, debris around you. I think... maybe they would have grabbed you too, but they must have wanted to get out of there fast."

"Lestrade informed me that officers arrived 5 minutes after the explosion. They must have been aware an explosion in the middle of London would cause a quick response." Sherlock spoke quietly.

"I'd guess so. It's... fuzzy, for a few days. I don't think they did anything in that time, other then... letting me get over the whole pool thing. I was in a cell. There was a steel door, with a barred window. That's where the window from my nightmare came from."

He took a steadying breath. Sherlock waited quietly.

"Then I started getting visited by this... blonde guy. He was asking me questions."

"What about?"

"Me... you... things we'd done. I asked him who he was and he didn't answer. I just remember... knowing I shouldn't answer, refusing to, keeping my mouth shut. For a few days it was like that, just... questions. Again, it's fuzzy for the most part."

"And then?"

John gave a faint groan, covered his eyes for a moment. "Moriarty came. To the place. I heard his voice. He was... told I wasn't answering the questions and he exploded at the guy. Then he came in."

Sherlock's hand had clenched on his chair, his eyes were burning, but John's eyes were on the floor.

"He came into the cell, and started... ranting. Told me that I was making things worse for myself if I kept this up. That they only wanted to 'keep me around', ask me questions, then they'd let me go."

"But it didn't happen that way..."

John shook his head. "I... don't remember for sure... but I heard something. A conversation between a few people, one of them was the blonde man. The next time he came in, he was being more insistent, angrier. I snapped back and... accidentally revealed what i'd heard. The man looked... worried, horrified, honestly. Then he got up and left the room. I knew nothing good would come of this."

John hesitated now, and Sherlock saw that his face had paled. They were getting to the worst part.

"The next day he came back and... without any preamble hit me. Kept on hitting me. He didn't ask any questions or anything. I don't know how long that lasted but I was bleeding by the time he left. The next day, it was more aggressive. I'm almost certain he broke a rib. That happened a few times before he finally started saying... why."

"What did he say?"

"That Moriarty had told him... I wasn't to be given a chance to eavesdrop again. That I shouldn't be allowed to tell anyone of what went on. I thought he'd kill me."

"But he didn't."

John shook his head. He'd started rocking back and forth slightly, agitated.

"It's fuzzy again up until the first time he... raped me. It might have been two weeks. That day, he came in and he seemed to be considering something. He started talking to himself. Seemed to be psyching himself up. Said that Jim hadn't told him not to... that it would be allowed. And what was the harm anyway? He started telling me I was nothing compared to Moriarty or... or you. That I needed to be shown... _how_ worthless. Then he pinned me down and... and..." John ran his hand through his hair, gripped it for a second, before looking up at Sherlock pleadingly, tears in his eyes. "I fought back, but I was in pain and weak, i'd never have let him."

"I know, John, I know." Sherlock got up and came over to sit beside him, unable to just sit at the other side of the room. His friend was clearly in a great deal of distress.

"I couldn't fight it. He pinned me down and... it felt like it lasted forever." John gave a sob, turned his head away, trying to keep a hold on his emotions.

"He kept doing it? For the rest of the time?"

John nodded "It's all a blur but... it must have been for the rest of the time until... this." He touched his temple, and Sherlock understood he meant 'until he broke my mind'.

"Others as well, but he was the only one that did it... sexually." John gave a shudder, clearly disliking saying that.

"And Moriarty?"

"... I don't remember seeing him again. But the man kept saying this was under his orders." John was close to breaking down in tears. "If I could have, I would have fought it all the way."

"I think no less of you for this John, never think that way." Sherlock said firmly. Then he asked. "Do you remember anything more from before that night? The pool."

John frowned for a second, trying to think.

"I remember... gunfire. Sounds of fighting and shouting in a strange language. And then smells of... antiseptic and bodies and..." He gave Sherlock a trouble glance. "Sherlock, please tell me what I was..."

"Are." Sherlock corrected. "You are a doctor. Before that, you were in the military."

John looked away, evidently trying to imagine that. Then his eyes widened.

"The scar on my shoulder came from that. I was... shot." He put his head in his hands. Sherlock could tell he was feeling overwhelmed. His body shook with silent sobs.

"You did brilliantly, John." He said quietly. He put a hand on John's shoulder and gently squeezed, cautious of doing any more. John didn't look up or answer.

Sherlock glanced up to see Mrs Hudson in the doorway. He beckoned her in, getting up as she came over.

"Could you look after him? I need to go and see someone."

Mrs Hudson nodded, but John looked up.

"Where are you going?"

"To get this sorted." Sherlock said grimly as he grabbed his coat. He was down the stairs and in the hallway when he heard a clattering sound and looked up to see John coming down the stairs, still teary eyed, but with a more determined and stronger look in his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"I'm coming with you. You don't think i'll let you sort this bastard out without my help, do you?"

For a moment, Sherlock hesitated, unsure if John should be doing this yet. But, meeting John's eyes, he realised that doing this had helped him, and that being stuck in the flat while Sherlock was doing the work wasn't what he wanted. He gave a smile as he opened the door.

"I wouldn't want it any other way."


	9. Chapter 9

_I kind of felt... sickened with myself after the last chapter, and didn't want to write again for a bit. However, better times are coming for our two favourite boys, sooo... As always, reviews please!_

A taxi pulled up within a minute of them leaving the flat. Within twenty, they had pulled up outside New Scotland Yard. As they got out of the taxi, John paused, glanced up. Sherlock paused beside him.

"We've been here before." John murmured. He looked to Sherlock for confirmation. "Right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Correct."

"That detective... Lestrade..."

"You're remembering more and more." Sherlock's tone was approving. "Come on."

As they entered Lestrade's offices, John saw, from the corner of his eye, a few heads turn. _Great..._ He thought. Then a female officer came up to them.

"What do you want, freak?" She asked, none too nicely. Sherlock gave a bland smile.

"To talk to Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sally, surely you're accustomed to my little visits by now?"

Sally gave him a glare. "He's in a conference call right now."

"Then i'll go and wait outside his office." Sherlock strode off. John went to follow, but Sally spoke.

"I told you getting involved with him is a mistake. Or... do you remember that now?"

She sounded awkward. John glanced at her.

"Yeah, I do. I also know that right now, he's one of the few people I know I can trust."

Sally didn't answer. John gave a nod to her, before following Sherlock. He was stood outside Lestrade's office, waiting. Lestrade had his back to the door. He appeared to be talking animatedly, his hands were moving as he talked.

"Perhaps we should... come back later?" John suggested, but Sherlock shook his head.

"He's only done that because he's been getting distracted by someone we know. He'll been done soon."

Sherlock glanced across the room and John, following his gaze, saw a stubbled, grouchy looking man, his eyes on his computer. As he watched, the man glared in their direction.

"He looks familiar, but I don't remember his name." John murmured. Sherlock gave a chuckle.

"That's the best thing i've heard all day. He'll love that."

After another minute, Lestrade finally put the phone down. He stretched, then turned his chair round the right way, and spotted Sherlock and John. After a moment's shock, he quickly gestured them in, getting up as he did so. As they entered, he came forward with a smile, shook Sherlock's hand, then John's.

"John, good to see you again."

"And you." John said, genuinely meaning it. Lestrade gestured them to chairs. John sat, but Sherlock stayed standing.

"Is it a good idea though, having him back on cases when... well..." Lestrade gave Sherlock a disapproving look.

"He wanted to come. We're not going to be running around half of London, Inspector. Or at least, you're not." He looked at John. "But I felt it was a good idea he came here given... events."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock glanced to John. _Your choice_... John swallowed.

"I've remembered some things that happened. When I left the flat this morning, two men followed me in the street. They stopped me on a sidestreet and..." John paused for a second. "I recognised one of them. I'd had nightmares, flashbacks involving him. They grabbed me and... it came back, the memory." His voice had gone shaky. He couldn't go on.

Lestrade hesitated for a second. Sherlock could see the question burning in Lestrade's mind, but to his relief, he didn't ask it. Perhaps he didn't need to.

"Which street was this? What time?"

It took John a moment to think. It felt like it had happened years ago.

"It was... just off Ottowa Avenue. About 10.30. I left the supermarket at 10.15."

Lestrade nodded, making a note of it.

"I'll get Sergeant Donovan to get hold of the CCTV footage in the area. We'll be able to identify them from that. Stay around, i'll call as soon as there's news."

XOX

They spent the time waiting in Molly's lab. Molly had been delighted to see them both. Sherlock hadn't come down much since the pool incident, and she had missed his visits. After greeting them both, she had largely left them to it. Sherlock could see her filling out reports across the room.

John was feeling drained. The reliving of the memory had taken more out of him then he'd initially realised. He leant forward over the laboratory counter, rubbing his eyes for a moment.

"If it's too much being here, you should go back to the flat."

He'd thought Sherlock's eyes were focused solely on the computer he was using, but evidently not. John straightened up, cleared his throat.

"I'm fine. Just feeling the effects, I guess."

"You've had a pretty rough morning."

John gave a faint chuckle.

"Pretty rough week. Pretty rough few months, if you think about it." He glanced towards Molly, then stepped closer to Sherlock. "If that's just... one part of it... what happened over the rest of the time?"

Sherlock looked at him at that. "I don't know. But we'll find out." He sounded sure, confident of that.

"You're so confident of these things. You always seem so sure and... well, detached."

"I can understand how overwhelming this must be for you, and believe me when I say i'm angry. But getting emotional whilst on the case will do nothing but hamper judgement." Seeing the slightly uncomfortable look on John's face, Sherlock spoke more gently. "We'll get this sorted. After that... well, give it time."

The sound of Molly's footsteps made both of them look round.

"Sorry, um... John, Inspector Lestrade just called to say they've got footage. He asked if you'd come up."

John nodded.

"Thanks."

"Do you want me to come?" Sherlock's voice came from behind him.

"No, it's OK... either way, we'll find out who this guy is."

"Alright. I've got something I need to follow up. I might not be here when you're done, so if not, head back to Baker Street."

John frowned slightly, obviously wondering, but he nodded before leaving the room. Sherlock turned back to the computer screen. To the message he had been writing. It seemed the best method to get in touch with the man he wished to talk to.

_I need the truth. Meet me. Under your terms, your location. I'll come alone. SH._

He sent the message. It took all of a minute for his phone to beep. A postcode, and the words. _Don't be stupid. M_

"Molly." Sherlock called as he got up. "I'm going."

"What?" Molly looked up, looking startled.

"I've got an appointment to keep." Sherlock said grimly.

XOX

Upstairs, John was sat before a laptop in Lestrade's office as Donovan ran him through the events. Lestrade was beside him, his brow furrowed as he watched.

"The men were standing on Baker Street. They arrived early, just after 6am. It looks like they were waiting. The f- Sherlock left the flat at 8.02..." She showed CCTV of Sherlock leaving the flat and flagging down a taxi. "But they didn't try to follow. They were waiting specifically for you."

John felt a chill. The men were on the opposite side of the street, and a few shops down. They barely looked away from the direction of the flat as Donovan fast-forwarded the footage.

"At 9.08am, you leave." It felt slightly weird seeing himself on film like this. "The men follow, but with the traffic at the time, it takes them longer then intended to cross the street."

"If they'd got across the street sooner, do you think they'd have done it then?"

"I don't know. Probably." She answered softly. John stayed quiet. His head felt like it was spinning. Lestrade interjected.

"What then?"

"They followed him to the supermarket. You arrived at 9.27am, and were in there until you left at 10.12am. The men follow. The footage shows you looking back."

John nodded.

"I was aware of them. I saw the blonde man in the supermarket and recognised him immediately. When I left, I glanced back and saw them following."

"Following, but not catching you until a certain point. They were faster then you, but intentionally kept their pace about the same... until you made for Ottowa Avenue." Donovan clicked a new clip. It showed John turning the corner towards Ottowa Avenue. The two men then ducked into a side road and disappeared.

"I believe they went through side alleys or even gardens to intercept you. They knew where you'd go, and they knew what they were doing." She paused. "I have footage of the actual assault but..."

"I'll view that later Sally, thank you." Lestrade said. John was thankful for that. Donovan put two pictures from the CCTV footage on the table.

"This is the man you recognised, yes?" Lestrade asked, pointing to the picture of the large blonde man. John gave a nod. "Right. I have a feeling he'll have appeared on our radar before. We'll look into the other man as well."

Sally closed the laptop, and left the room. When she had done so, Lestrade spoke quietly.

"How're you doing?"

John shrugged.

"I've been better. It's all a bit..." He gestured, unable to find words, but Lestrade understood.

"I can imagine. Well, I can't, but... I can take a guess." He gave a slight smile, then said. "You've got us on your side, mate. And if this sod's on our systems, i'm going to come down on him like a tonne of bricks, that I can tell you."

XOX

Sherlock stood, looking up the building he'd come to. The postcode had led him to what appeared to be a rundown factory. A faded sign beside the boarded up door told him it used to be a biscuit factory. He hesitated. Surely this was a mistake? He turned to go, wanting to check but, as he'd expected, his phone beeped yet again.

_Round the back. M. x_

"Making me play ring-a-roses then, are we?" Sherlock murmured as he put his phone away. He walked around the back of the building, and found that a back door had been forced open.

The inside was dark, damp and lonely. Clearly, this place had been abandoned a long time ago. The room he stepped into was huge, perhaps had been the main production room, but now it was bare.

Sherlock waited. Then, the double doors at the far end opened, and Moriarty stepped inside. He looked quite delighted to see Sherlock.

"I knew you'd come see me. It was only a matter of time. And you're not being stupid either, that's wonderful to see."

"Same as in the hospital." Sherlock said. "You wouldn't have just walked into a hospital unarmed and alone, same as you haven't met me here alone." His gaze flickered momentarily around them, to the door, the windows. There was no sign of the snipers that he knew were there, but then that was their job. Moriarty gave a laugh.

"There I was hoping your emotions would overtake your great mind, just for once. Yes, there were two hired men in the hospital. Mercenaries. Had you tried to accost me, they'd have opened fire. That would have been a waste."

"Hm... and how many snipers are here right now?"

"Four. They've been on you since you got out of that taxi. Actually, my men have been watching you since you left Baker Street. Wise of you, by the way, to not let Mr Watson know you were coming here."

At Moriarty's use of John's name, Sherlock's face contorted with anger. Moriarty's smile widened.

"Ahh, how quaint. You want to protect him."

"Considering what I learnt today? Yes. I knew you were cold and cruel, but to this level? Having that done to a man?"

"And what does _dear_ John believe took place?"

"You _know _what he believes! You planted it!"

"I also know you don't believe it." Moriarty said softly.

"I believe it's what he's seeing. I don't believe it's what happened."

"It really is annoyingly difficult to keep things from you." Moriarty sighed. He didn't look disappointed though, he looked almost ecstatic. He moved a few steps closer, and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Fine, yes, that's a false memory. The true memory will come back to him... at the appropriate time."

"How? Drugs? Hypnosis?"

"Oh please Sherlock, you really think i'd resort to hypnosis? No no _no_, far too selective, not everyone responds to hypnosis."

"Then how?"

"Drugs, mixed with old-fashioned torture. The slow way, but the best."

Sherlock shook his head slightly. He could see the logic, could see the path, the different ways this could go, but couldn't understand it.

"Why?"

For a moment, Moriarty looked away. When he looked back, there was a bitter, almost loathing look on his face. It utterly transformed his face, made it suddenly frightening.

"I told you i'd burn you, Sherlock. Trusting in others, caring for others... is a foolish flaw. You'll see soon enough."

"As opposed to needing to rely upon those seeking money and notoriety? Those with no allegiance? That's the foolish option. I trust those I work with, because they work with me for no other reason then because I ask."

"Then you are a _fool._" Moriarty hissed. For a moment, the two of them glared at each other. Then, Moriarty's face relaxed, calmed. "I think we're done here. As much as i'd love to end this now, I want to see the rest of the show. Goodbye, Sherlock." He turned to leave.

"Was John raped?" Sherlock asked. That was the one question he needed answering. Moriarty paused, and Sherlock heard a slight chuckle.

"You really do care about him, don't you?" Moriarty glanced back. "Yes, he was. But the actual events were quite different."

"If you want to burn me, why do this? Why not just come for me directly?"

Moriarty gave a smile. It seemed slightly mad.

"Because... that would be no fun to watch." With that, he turned away and strode back to the door he'd come through. As he left, he called "Have fun!" before the door banged shut behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

_This is a little shorter then normal, but this is for conveniences sake. A big chapter is coming mid-week next week._

Sherlock arrived back in Baker Street to find John sat at his laptop, looking engrossed. It was only as Sherlock closed the door behind him that John seemed to realise he was there.

"Oh, hi." He said, sitting up straighter.

"Hi. Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked.

"Hm?" John glanced at his laptop. "Oh, yeah. I asked Lestrade if it would be OK to send the pictures and CCTV footage over so you could take a look too. He sent it over about ten minutes ago, and I was just... thinking about it."

Sherlock didn't need to ask why John thought it was a good idea he looked at the photos, because he could see why. He could, after all, tell more about a person from a glance then the police would be able to.

He held out his hand for the laptop, and John handed it over without a word. Sherlock sat down and began to flick through. He didn't need an explanation of the events that had unfolded. He ran the sequence of photos through twice, in silence.

"They were waiting outside..." He was talking more to himself then to John, but John spoke anyway.

"Donovan said that they were stood outside for a while. That when you came out, they saw you but didn't try to follow."

"It was when you came out. But _why_...?" Sherlock's brow was furrowed. He glanced up at John. "Is there video?"

"Yeah, in the same folder as the photos."

Sherlock quickly found it, and played the video. It played like a silent film, with all the CCTV from the different cameras cut together. Despite himself, Sherlock felt a grudging respect for Donovan's speed with getting this done. Again, he played it through twice. His only show of emotion was the showing of the actual assault taking place. John saw his eyes narrow, his hand clench into a fist beside the laptop. He glanced away. He hadn't seen the footage himself, but could imagine it wasn't very pleasant.

"I see." He closed the video and the pictures. Then he closed the laptop, and handed it back over to John.

"So?" John asked.

"I rather think Lestrade needs to hear this as well, don't you?" Sherlock got his phone out of his pocket and called Lestrade. He didn't even pause to say hello before starting to talk.

"Do you have a pen and paper to hand? Because i'm about to give you a lot of crucial information about our CCTV friend, i'd suggest you write it all down so you don't forget. Yes, fine, i'll wait." He sighed, obviously waiting for Lestrade to grab a pen and paper.

"What-?" John began, but Sherlock held up a hand to forestall him.

"He looks in his middle 40's, but I would put him at early 50's with good genes. His demeanour, sense of clothing and the neatness of his hair and beard tell me he was military, but his age and his current area of employment tell me that ended a few years ago." A question from Lestrade caused a tone of impatience. "Only military men carry themselves in that manner, John's an example of that. Can I continue?"

John raised his eyebrows at the tone of voice Sherlock was using. Even by normal standards, he was being rude. Sherlock cast him an impatient look, before continuing to talk.

"I don't know enough to be able to say for certain what happened, but I do know one thing. This man was involved in what happened to John. For one thing, John has had nightmares involving him. For another, during the footage the man tells his partner 'let me deal with him; i'm the one he'll remember, i'm the one who did it'." At this, John gave him a half startled, half frightened look. Sherlock gave him another look, before Lestrade's next question had him thinking again.

"His partner is younger. Late 30's. The blonde man is obviously the leader, he was in the lead and seemed to give orders to the younger man. Also..." Sherlock paused, then said to John. "I'd suggest not listening to this, John." John, guessing the subject matter, turned away and did his best to shut out the next part. He noted, gratefully, that Sherlock lowered his voice. _He's not completely unaware of people's reactions then..._ "During the assault, the blonde man took charge. The younger man kept John from running, but it was the other who actually... yes. Whatever his role in John's disappearance was, he knew seeing him would be the catalyst."

They carried on talking for another few minutes, Sherlock answering questions Lestrade was putting to him; John, however, had tuned out of the conversation. His mind was back in that street, when the men had cornered him. The blonde man had been ahead of the other, and the smile on his face had been... knowing, cunning. He'd known the effect he was about to have over John. Had been told about it. John closed his eyes. _I behaved just like he thought I would..._

"Alright. I..." A glance from John made Sherlock correct himself. "_We_ will come tomorrow afternoon. Good night." He ended the call. There was a few seconds pause.

"John, I have to ask you... how did he-"

"I don't know." John's voice was quiet. He closed his eyes, tried to visualise. "He... that other man grabbed me, and then... he came close and said something. A sentence."

"Do you remember what it was?" Sherlock's voice was slightly sharper. John shook his head, his face still in his hands.

"It's like that's been wiped away." He raised his head in time to see the fleeting troubled look on Sherlock's face. "That's not right, I know."

"It's not. But there's a reason why."

"What do you...?" John started, but Sherlock quickly shook his head.

"There's no reason to think that way yet. For now, i'd suggest you rest. You look like death warmed up."

John gave a slight laugh.

"Charming as ever..."


End file.
